


Want

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Comfort Sex, Established Relationship, First Time, First Time Topping, Heavy Angst, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Michael Dean - Freeform, Post-Michael Dean, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Season/Series 14 Spoilers, Spanking, Triggers, for Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 10:27:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16324487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: Cas’s eyes flare blue as he looms over him, but it’s brief. “Dean?”“Yeah? Yeah, I’m here.”Cas drops his head. “No, you’re not.” He’s not angry or disappointed. Just sad—just like every face he’s seen through the eyes of Michael.





	Want

**Author's Note:**

> So HI! It's been a while. I've honestly just been stuck on this one fic. I finally had to convince myself, after many edits later and some self-reflection, that it was good enough. 
> 
> That being said, I hope I did it the justice it deserved (aka actually happening on the show).

Hungry for flesh, Cas rids Dean of his false skin.

He starts shucking his brown, blood-stained corduroy coat off his already heavy shoulders. Then, he moves to his green vest, popping the four buttons. The paisley tie underneath is discarded next, along with the tucked in, ironed-down, button-up white shirt that screams twenty-something magnate.

They’re all molts of Michael. The closer Cas gets to Dean’s flesh, the more Dean can breathe in what feels like his new skin again.

Dean uses Cas’s own tie to pull him into another bruising kiss. He gets a little lost after the fourth tongue meld. It’s a sloppy, pulse-reviving kiss beneath his chin that causes Cas’s hand on his waist to tighten. He flinches.

“Are you okay?” Cas asks. Dean moves Cas’s same hand to his ass. It stings there too, just not as bad.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he reassures, adding another kiss for good measure. This one’s chaste: Just the simple slide of two untouched instruments trying to produce sound again. This way, he’s distracted by the harmony. “I just forgot how good this is.”

Luckily, Cas takes the excuse and dives back in. His tongue hits him like a hot iron, pressing and sliding against his mouth with just enough heat and pressure to straighten Dean out.

Swiftly, Cas picks Dean up bridal-style and throws him onto his memory foam (which will finally live up to its name). Cas’s eyes flare blue as he looms over him, but it’s brief. “Dean?”

“Yeah? Yeah, I’m here.”

Cas drops his head. “No, you’re not.” He’s not angry or disappointed. Just sad—just like every face he’s seen through the eyes of Michael. “We don’t have to do this,” he continues, removing his hand from Dean’s face. “We can watch a movie. Jack’s into Rocky now since taking up boxing. I know the second one is your seventh favorite movie.”

“Eighth.”

“Hmm?”

“‘s my eighth favorite movie,” Dean clarifies. “You forgot Scarface.”

Cas smiles softly. “My apologies.”

“I need this, Cas,” Dean says, voice breaking. His name feels so foreign on his tongue. Even his lips tremble at the very fear of speaking about someone he loves. “I really, _really_ need this.”

Cas nods. He holds his gaze slipping Dean’s belt from his slacks, and even as he trades it for lube and a condom inside their nightstand. Any other day of the week, Dean would joke, cautioning him a photo won’t last as long as he will, but this isn’t any other day of the week. This is the first day of the week in six weeks without Cas—without _anyone_. Michael’s gift to him was silence. Whenever he smited someone, Dean couldn’t hear their final pleas or screams.

His curse was hearing his own when he raised his hand to someone.

“Wait, wait.” Dean wriggles a little under both the grip on his waist again and the pressure beneath him, only stretching himself further on Cas’s fingers. He avoids screaming, but the plea in his tone is unmistakable: “Don’t... I mean _do,_ but—Ugh! Son of a bitch!”

“Dean, it’s okay,” Cas reassures, slipping out of him in a way so gentle, it makes Dean even more irate. He knows he sees the giant bruise just above his right thigh now, and the countless others that decorate his body like a blotched Van Gogh painting—not like he was ever worth millions anyway. “Just talk to me. What do you want?”

_‘Let him go! He’s innocent! He has nothing to do with—!’ Dean clutches his throat as something thick and slimy coats it. He opens his mouth to speak again, to cry, to croak, something, but nothing—not even the sounds of his own suffocation—comes out._

**_A false witness will not go unpunished, and he who breathes out lies shall not escape. You’re no exception, Dean Winchester._ **

“Dean?”

“I want you,” Dean blurts. He grasps his neck and takes a hard swallow before meeting Cas’s eyes again. “I want you. But I... I also want control… I want to be inside you.”

Cas doesn’t say anything. He just leans back on his knees in front of Dean with his arms outstretched. Dean sits up slowly to drink in the view. He’s still fully clothed, but there’s something strangely more intimate about his surrender to Dean. Cas, an unearthly being whose hand is probably the size of the Statue of Liberty, bends to Dean’s will. It floods him with a sense of power he hasn’t felt since saying yes. “Well go on. Don’t back out on me now.”

Dean moves to Cas. He reaches behind him, stroking Cas’s hair softly. Cas leans into it, even when Dean snaps his head back, growling, “You’re still a pain in my ass.”

“Usually, yes,” Cas grunts, “but today you’ll be a pain in mine.”

“Did I say you could speak?” Dean barks, releasing him. “On your knees, pet! And ass where I can see it!”

Cas obeys, crawling to the other side of the bed. Before assuming doggie position, he unzips his pants and pulls down his boxers. Cock swinging between his legs like a pendulum on a grandfather clock, heavy and anticipatory at the new sight before him, Dean moves to where he is.

He takes his time admiring Cas’s ass in a few languid strokes before smacking it. Cas bucks a little in response. Dean does it again, harder, causing Cas’s lower body to thrust into the mattress and his cock, leaking pre-cum, to paint the sheets. Cas breathes heavily in lieu of a moan.  

“Love you like this,” Dean remarks, slapping him once more for emphasis. Cas hisses and humps into the mattress again. Dean uses the opportunity while he’s distracted to lube his fingers before shoving two inside. “A bitch to your own body. Go on, rut like the bitch you are.”

Every stroke inside him, Cas does just that, and, like keys in the ignition of a brand-new Chevy, work in harmony to make the most beautiful hums and purrs.

A whole fist later, Cas proves his readiness by sticking out further. Though Cas can’t see him, Dean cocks his head with a grin and rolls the condom on, moaning at just the quick slide of his own hands—earning a twitch from Cas’s own dick. “Since you’ve been such a good sport,” says Dean, sewing small kisses into each notch of his spine before reaching his neck, “I wanna you hear you scream.”

Cas does just that with every thrust—each harder than the last.

He cums; Dean’s name the only coherent word spilling from his mouth. Dean follows suit.

“You know we’re eventually going to have to talk about this,” Cas says an hour later, on those same soiled sheets, with an armful of Dean Winchester.

Dean just nuzzles deeper into Cas’s neck, mumbling, “Mmm… wouldn’t want anything else.”

 

 

 


End file.
